Cold of the Valar
by 0torno
Summary: Maedhros faces punishment in the Halls of Mandos after his suicide.


The push of hot whipping wind seemed to force him upwards, twisting his hair and burning his throat with dry dust, screaming; no, Maedhros- not yet! Go back, _go back_! But he fell all the same. The searing agony of a thousand tongues of flame assailed him as he plunged into the abyss, molten rock and the fragile casing of an elvish form meeting in a wave of heavy glowing magma and sparks. Maedhros' body lasted for a mere moment before life flashed away in a haze of pain and despair, and he knew no more; felt no more, and embraced the emptiness with the insatiable hunger of one who can have no peace in awareness.

But light sprang from the darkness.

Feeling returned slowly to his limbs and Maedhros realized he was lying on the ground; smooth, porous stone, cold as ice, lay under his fingertips.

"The Ring of Doom has reviewed your case, and has come to a decision."

The voice was low and tense despite its melodic quality, and the power of each syllable reverberated through the floor; it jarred Maedhros' jaw and he forced his bleary eyes open. Before him, as if from a great distance, a form of flickering shadow sat upon a carven throne. Waves of cold radiated from the darkened silhouette.

"Rise, Maedhros son of Fëanor, and hear your verdict."

He heaved himself painfully into a kneeling position, arms straight and palms - both palms - flat against the stone, but could not rise further due to the groaning protests of his muscles.

"You will return to Endor in the manner of your arrival to Mandos. There will you abide until the unmaking of the world, in solitude and in guilt as you reflect upon your crimes. So says Námo."

"But..." Maedhros' voice came out as a croak. He wet his lips, and struggled to his feet. Somehow, the return of his sword hand was neither exciting nor even remarkable.

"Am I not in Valinor, my lord? In Mandos?" he asked in confusion, voice rough. His throat felt burnt and raw.

"You are."

Maedhros gritted his teeth against the power-infused voice throbbing through his bones. "But, my lord," he said, "I am dead. Should I not remain here, with my kin, as Illùvatar decreed?"

Nàmo's voice rose in anger, ringing in the hall and grating against Maedhros' eardrums. "You have long forfeited the right to argue in the Maker's name, son of Fëanor!" he thundered. "The Ring of Doom has reviewed your case, and your punishment is as follows: You will return to Endor in the manner of your arrival to Mandos. There will you abide until the unmaking of the world, in solitude and in guilt as you reflect upon your crimes!"

"Punishment?" Maedhros echoed faintly.

"Yes. You have committed grave evils against the design of Eru, though not as grave as some of your kin. As such, your punishment," - he paused for emphasis - "Is not as severe as theirs, save your eldest."

"Pardon, my lord...?"

"You all must face your worst fears as penance for your barbarism: Celegorm has been mutilated and returned to Tirion. Caranthir will remain here for all eternity, facing physical torment of the most painful kind. Curufin has had his hands chopped off and will also stay in Mandos forever. Amrod and Amras have similar fates to Caranthir. Maglor, meanwhile, has lost the use of his voice and hands for three hundred years."

Reeling, Maedhros backed up.

"Makalaurë... You... You stole his ability to make music?" he gasped. "You will have him dead! Music is his _life_! You must-"

"_SILENCE_!" Nàmo boomed, and Maedhros cowered, forced to the ground as if by an invisible will. "Your brother's sentence is the least of your kin, and the least of your concern! He resides in Tirion in freedom and bliss, and his voice and hands will be returned to him ere three hundred years of the Trees have passed; while your other brothers' sentences are eternal. And you, your sentence is fluid; you may return to Aman when you have paid for your transgressions - if ever. The Mighty Singer is lucky."

Maedhros nodded mutely, ears ringing, and got up on his knees. "What must I do to achieve pardon, my lord?" he asked quietly.

"Learn," Námo said coldly, voice resonating with such thrilling force that Maedhros felt sparks behind his eyes. "Now go, son of Fëanor, and seek answer in the green lands of Beleriand. Go now, slayer of kin, and create the peace that you will."

His voice began slowly to fade away as the stone carven hall began to stretch and disappear, swallowed up by a warm, damp mist.

"My lord!" Maedhros called fearfully, leaping to his feet. "What is happening? I want to see my brothers-!"

A tendril of shadow lightly touched Maedhros' cheek, but its chill was refreshing as a gurgling stream in the forest; the warmth-sapping ice-fire of before was gone.

"Av-'osto, Ionneg," a voice whispered. "May the sun shine upon you when it will."

And then the darkness took him once more.


End file.
